Back Rubs and Internal Conflict
by kimjongunbelievable
Summary: Castiel gives Dean a massage, and angst ensues. Destiel if you squint. Warnings: complete and utter crack.


Disclaimer: Just playing in another person's sandbox. Everything belongs to Kripke and the CW.

Also: I'm having trouble with the formatting, so please be patient. Sorry.

Somehow, inexplicably, Dean had drawn the short straw this time. He huffed as he flounced out the door (as much as words like "huff" and "flounce" could apply to someone like Dean Winchester), unusual behavior provoked by the fact that he hated leaving the nerds alone together. When Dean was gone, Sam and Cas seemed to almost always come up with some insane plot that (more often than not) ruined Dean's day. Like that time when Dean came back and found them debating the merits of gasoline versus diesel and they didn't stop until Cas had to leave. Hours later. Dean was actually surprised he lasted the evening without murdering the both of them.

Dean could not believe that he had let himself get roped into this. Grocery store runs were _Sam's_ thing. The moose loved picking out the grossest rabbit food he could, which was why Dean was suspicious of Sam's attitude about winning the right to stay home. His brother was _way_ too excited—he didn't even give Dean a list of things he wanted.

Sam had officially gone insane.

Dean didn't complain verbally—he _was_ overdue for a food run. Really, he didn't ever complain about the stuff that made Sammy as happy as he was now. Even so, his grumpiness expressed itself in his slumped, defensive posture, in his even-more-pouty-than-usual lips, in his crossed arms, in every single aspect of his appearance and attitude.

People said Dean Winchester hid his feelings.

People were dead wrong.

He yanked open the door of the Impala, shoving the key in the ignition. He revved the engine and smiled, because _damn _if his baby's purring wasn't the most therapeutic sound in the universe. The car that he built and rebuilt and rebuilt never failed to calm him down-it even made him feel better about grocery duty. Almost.

Sam watched out of cheap curtains until he couldn't see the unforgiving black of his home for the past couple years and then immediately turned to Castiel. Some of what he was feeling must have been showing on his face, for the angel's brows furrowed and he did that head-tilt thing that Sam knew Dean absolutely adored (but would never ever admit that he noticed, even under torture or threat of death).

Excitement shining through Sam's features like a beacon, he said, "Ok, Cas. So Dean's gone."

Castiel's head tilted farther. "I was aware. You and I both observed his departure."

Sam was too enthused to do anything but smile. "Ok, so here's what you're going to do. Have you noticed that Dean has been kind of… tense lately?"

Dean kicked the motel room door open, bags hanging on his shoulders and arms and dripping from his fingers because dammit, he was _not_ making two trips. He paused in the doorway, backlit and windblown, a conqueror returning to his home. To his surprise, Cas was sitting on the bed watching TV and Sam was nowhere to be found. Green eyes swung around to meet blue and before Dean could get the words out Cas spoke with that stupid awesome rough voice of his.

"Sam said to tell you that he found something on the latest hunt and it was close enough to walk to. He said not to expect him for at least another two hours or so."

Two hours didn't exactly sound "close," but whatever. If the overgrown baby wanted to walk, Dean would let him walk. The older Winchester shrugged. He unceremoniously dumped the bags onto the table and similarly dumped himself on to one of the beds, letting out a large sigh. He spoke. "Cas, don't tell Sam this, but I'm really tired and I'm going to take a nap. Wake me up in thirty minutes, okay?"

Dean didn't wait for answer; he knew Cas would do it. Cas almost always did what Dean said. He simply leaned his head back onto the chair and effortlessly slipped into the state of dozing-but-still-slightly-aware-of-his-surrounding s he had perfected when he was seven. Might as well get some shuteye while he could.

Castiel saw the tension in Dean's shoulders, ever-present even while asleep. The hunter, relaxed as he looked, was always on edge, always ready to jump up and protect Sam. Dean never truly _rested._ Sure, he slept, but always with a large knife under his pillow (Castiel knew, he had seen Dean's hand unconsciously wrapped around the hilt more than once). One sound from Sam and Dean would catapult out of sleep to lie awake, staring at the ceiling, until he reassured himself that his little brother was not being murdered. When they fought, too, Dean always had his body turned slightly towards Sam. It was Dean's life-protect Sammy, help Sammy, cover Sammy's butt. In those stolen moments in Dean's mind, Castiel heard John Winchester's voice ringing through Dean's head, clear and realistic even after the man's death. _Watch out for Sammy. Look out for your little brother, boy!_

Dean needed a break.

Castiel stood, making no noise. Dean had good hearing while awake and almost superhuman hearing while asleep, a necessity in his line of work. More than once, Castiel had winged away from the motel room during the night and accidentally woken Dean up in the process.

Castiel pulled himself away from his thoughts. Sam had told him that this would relax Dean, and the combined trust in the younger Winchester and experience watching TV convinced the angel of the validity of Sam's theory.

Striding over to Dean, the angel gently put his hand on the other man's shoulder, to "test the waters," so to speak. Castiel fully expected to receive a punch for his troubles; after all, Dean's natural reaction to being forcibly woken up was murder.

The angel had learned that the hard way.

Castiel forcibly relaxed his muscles and tightened his grip on his Grace to get ready to heal himself. He waited, adequately prepared for a blow, but instead of the anticipated injury, Dean just leaned into the touch. He murmured something that Castiel (for all his angelic hearing) could only understand bits and pieces of.

"Cas... mmngh... heart attack dude..."

Castiel rarely showed emotion on his vessel's face. It was simply inefficient, and an absolutely _human_ thing to do, but now he could not restrain the small smile that was the only indicator of how his Grace nearly vibrated with delight.

Dean _recognized _him. _In his sleep_.

And that was more important than anything, because Dean had been raised to never let his guard down. To never fully sleep, to never stop pacing the knife's edge.

Dean was showing bone-deep, unconscious trust in Castiel, and that was _amazing._

Castiel could not reign in his grin as he moved his hand towards Dean's neck, putting the other hand on the opposite shoulder. He used Sam's explanation and subsequent video representation as reference. He placed one hand on either side of Dean's neck, and gently squeezed his thumbs on the tendons he found there. He rubbed gently, thumbs moving in small circles, and monitored Dean.

Dean was a tactile person, always running his hands over things or leaning up against things or holding things. He didn't do what he dubbed "deep conversation crap." That was Sam's pattern of behavior. All anyone had to do was ask and the younger Winchester would immediately vocalize everything that bothered him. Growing up, Sam's emotions, Sam's wants and needs, Sam's feelings, Sam, Sam, _Sam_ was what Dean considered important. Being raised that way, Sam got used to it. He got used to vocalizing. He got used to telling others how he felt before they could do the same. And it wasn't a selfish thing; it was the way Sam was wired, the way he communicated.

However, Dean had his own way of expressing emotions, something that began long before he ever started hunting. His method was, unfortunately, a lot more subtle than Sam's. It had to be-Dean's self-appointed job was Sammy first, being a good son second, and following John's orders third. His dad and Sammy _had_ to come first; Dean's own feelings could never be voiced for fear of not hearing theirs.

As anyone who had been in a room with Dean for more than three minutes could attest, Dean was a very physical person. Every shift in posture, touch of hand, or slight nod meant more than words ever could. In order to fully communicate with Dean, one had to be fluent in body language.

Sam kind of understood, he could make sense of large gestures, but there were subtleties he wouldn't catch. It wasn't that he didn't try; Sam worked extremely hard to figure out what was going on in Dean's mind, but he couldn't. His logic, the way he made sense of things, even his very _soul_ was completely different from his older brother's-for example, on the issue of their dad. Dean was so focused on catering to John's every whim that he had never been able to develop any of his own. All Dean wanted was to keep his family safe, together, and happy, but Sam and John were destined to rip each other to pieces. With Dean in the middle of it.

The only person who could begin to comprehend Dean was Castiel. As he grew more and more human, Castiel spent more and more time with the Winchesters. Thus, he became aware of Dean's subconscious need for physical contact. Bobby and Sam, most likely because they were so used to Dean, seemed not to notice. Castiel did, but he did his best to act as though he barely paid attention when Dean would suddenly pull him closer and sling an arm across his shoulders because he knew that, if called out, Dean would suddenly stop and act very uncomfortable and possibly stop touching Castiel altogether. Which would be fine, apart from the fact that honestly, Castiel didn't mind the constant contact. Pretending not to notice wasn't quite as difficult as Castiel had thought it would be and it soon felt quite natural. In fact, Castiel found himself wanting the small pats on the back or messing with his hair and it kind of, sort of, almost bothered him when it didn't happen.

As Castiel became "one of the team" more and more, Dean's signs of affection-but-not-affection-because-that-would-be- gay became more and more frequent until it was as if Cas and Dean were joined at the hip. Sam found himself resigned to the back seat of the Impala more often than not, Dean being in the driver's seat with one arm slung around the passenger's seat. The touching became a comfort Castiel had never previously had, but now found he needed.

Touch was an intrinsically human thing, and a fundamental part of Dean. It was how he operated, how he expressed, how he connected. Everything he needed to say could be communicated with a pat on the shoulder or teasing arm punch. Dean _could_ articulate, but his words often came out forced and messy. The way he stood, the way he stared, those were his words. Not everyone understood them, but the people who mattered to him were the ones that tried hard enough to figure him out.

Dean shifted under Castiel's hands and the angel realized that he was just sitting there, not moving. He rectified the situation immediately, rubbing his thumbs almost affectionately across the nape of Dean's neck, quickly and efficiently eradicating all lactic acid in the muscles there. Dean was almost completely relaxed now, his head lolled forward, his shoulders slumped, his hands uncurled.

And Dean was so totally not awake.

Nope. Not at all. He wasn't. Just like he wasn't enjoying the heck out of the neck rub. Just like he didn't accidentally-on-purpose roll his head to the side to give Cas more room to work with. Just like he absolutely did not slump forward to try and get Cas to rub his back.

And boy, did Cas deliver. His hands massaged Dean's back gently, with enough force to relax but not enough to cause pain. And it felt _amazing-_Cas's angel heat or something was melting into his back, and it was so warm and nice that Dean didn't ever want it to stop.

Just then Castiel moved his hand around to the handprint on Dean's arm and Dean arched up because holy _wow_ that felt like pie and mom and the best double bacon cheeseburger of all time all wrapped up in an angel's palm. And that was with Dean facing backwards. Through his _clothes_.

Dean involuntarily gasped and his eyes flew open. He twisted around to see Cas, looking extremely confused and Cas was pulling his hand away and _what the everliving hellwas going on_ but then Cas was there, again, hand slotting onto handprint like it belonged there. Dean was too overwhelmed to protest the freaking weird feeling of his best friend's hand on his arm-he wanted to solidify this feeling and wrap himself in it, and it was a testament to how much his brain was fuzzed out that he was even _thinking_ these things. He sounded like Sammy, but in that moment, he could not bring himself to care.

He relaxed a bit more into Castiel's touch, letting the feeling of home wash over him. His hand slipped down, off of the angel's wrist, but Castiel didn't move his hand because it felt just as good to him as it did to the human. Even surrounded by his brothers and sisters in Heaven, he had never felt this _connected,_ this _close_ to another. Even while being permeated by the glory of God Himself, Castiel had never felt this sense of sharing, of warmth and love.

Both Cas and Dean moved towards each other, trying to get more of the sensation of pure belonging emanating from the angel's hand on the righteous man's shoulder.

For Dean, the best part was the feeling that Castiel was eternal, was patient, would never leave. Dean loved that because so many people had entered his life wearing kind smiles and offering to take his hand. His dad. Sam. Cassie. Jim. Bobby. Gordon. Jo. Nameless people from nameless towns they hadn't even spent a month in. He'd trusted them. He'd let them in.

And they all walked away.

It was long ago that Dean had realized that he could not be helped. That he was beyond repair, that he was broken, and no one would ever want to fix him, let alone try. No one wanted to stay long enough to figure him out, and that was because he let them down. He failed everyone he knew, everyone he ever cared about. Especially John.

He'd tried everything to make his father happy, make him smile, make him laugh. He'd tried everything to make John love him again. Nothing worked. He wasn't fast enough or strong enough or smart enough or good enough. There was something wrong with him, something that made him bad in his father's eyes. The years of solitude and derogatory remarks from the man he respected most had drilled that into his mind.

When Dean had physical contact with his father, it was angry. He absolutely never got the giant bear hugs that Sammy did. Dean was never told "Good job, son" or "I love you too, little buddy" like Sammy was. Dean was always critiqued, always criticized, always passed over in favor of his little brother. His work was not worthy of going on the refrigerator covered with the words "Sam" and "A" and "Good!" Sammy was always better, no matter what Dean did.

Dean's drawings were trash. Dean's grades were trash. Dean's aim was trash. Dean's knife technique was trash. Dean's fighting stance was trash.

Dean was trash.

Dean was trash, and Sammy was gold. Everyone thought so. Even his mother. Even the one person that Dean assumed in his five-year-old mind loved him, that, if given the chance, she would come back and be with him again. She'd hold him in her arms and chase away all the pain and heartache. She would fix him with a simple touch, make him whole again, make him human.

And then he'd seen her, close enough that she could have reached out and touched him and fixed him and everything would have been better. He really couldn't blame her for walking by. For choosing Sam. After all, Sam had never met her, and Sam wasn't broken.

And then John sold his soul. He did it to bring Dean back, which was noble, but then he told Dean to kill his brother. He sold his soul so he wouldn't have to kill his favorite son, the one who wasn't broken, the one who didn't need constant attention and care and love. Sammy didn't need to be fixed.

John had given him a look in that graveyard. It was one of joy, of understanding, of hope. He'd just realized that his broken boy was heading straight to Hell in a year and he wouldn't be there with him. It was perfect. John wouldn't have to spend eternity trying to fix him. Yippee.

Sam would have said that was a lie, but Sam didn't know. He hadn't seen his father's eyes. Besides, Sam couldn't really be trusted.

They had been kids when he'd idolized his brother, back before Dean had realized that he was broken and different and wrong. He had felt like a person when he was with Sammy, even though he had to act as a parent. Sammy needed him, wanted him, loved him, and Dean unconditionally loved him back.

He didn't care what Sammy did, he would always and forever protect his little brother. Even when Sammy got taller than Dean. Even when Sammy made a life for himself. Even when Sammy did awful things. Even when Sammy didn't need his older brother, didn't need his support or his love because Sam had the capacity to respect himself and get by on that alone. Dean couldn't do that-Dean needed affirmation, craved the look on people's faces that screamed, "You're a hero!" because that was the only time he ever felt like he was good enough. Sometimes, he felt like he _lived_ for the next wave of hero-worship because besides Sam, that was the only thing in his life worth living for. Sam's way was better and healthier because he considered himself to be good enough. Straight up, unconditionally _enough_. Didn't matter what he did, he was good enough for himself, and that was what counted. On the other hand, Dean had spent so much time around the ridiculous expectations of his dad that he _never_ felt like he was good enough. Dean's opinion didn't matter to himself because to his father, it had never mattered. John didn't care what Dean _thought_ about something, he only gave a crap that Dean did what he said and did it well.

This translated over into the brothers's attitudes. See, Sam had this quiet kind of assurance about him, this manner that said "I am of value, and you should listen to me, but you are of value too, so I will listen to you and give my full attention to you." And Dean had brash, loud, overcompensating egotism. He projected himself to be God's gift to the earth because if he did any less, then it wouldn't make up for how he really felt about himself. The arrogance balanced out the self-loathing.

Sam had confidence, and Dean had cockiness, but Dean did not care. He has loved his brother, he loves his brother and he will continue to love him until there is nothing left of Dean to give. And there was another problem; Dean didn't _do_ half-assed. Didn't really matter on what subject, either he had nothing to do with it or poured his soul into it 100%. And the problem with that was that most other people in Dean's life never gave as much as Dean did. They always had half-trusting relationships. They always had a grain of "Wait..." in the backs of their minds. Dean could not bring himself to do that-once Dean Winchester had faith in you, there were no brakes or take backs. Not that it was easy to earn his faith. Really, the only people Dean trusted were Sam and Bobby. Cassie and Lisa and his dad and Gordon had once been on the list. Cas was well on his way to Dean Winchester's Land of You Can Do No Wrong, too.

But with his trust came a price. Dean expected the people he trusted to trust him back just as much. Which was, for almost everybody, impossible.

See, Dean's definition of trust was "would die for you at the drop of a hat" and most people simply could not scrounge up that kind of faith within themselves to return the sentiment and were stuck at _their_ definition of trust, which was "ok, I will leave you alone with my significant other, but you still can't touch my computer."

The only person who got close to reciprocating was Sammy, when he was young and needed someone to depend on. But then Sammy grew up. He turned into Sam. Sam didn't need his older brother, didn't want him, didn't even pretend to love him. He just wanted to be normal, and Dean wasn't normal.

Dean was broken.

And he knew, he _knew_ that he would never be fixed, but now with Castiel's hand on his arm, he was almost able to convince himself that he had a chance. A chance of being redeemed, being loved, being made better. If he was being honest with himself, really brutally honest, he knew that there was no way that something as simple as a neck rub could fix him, but for now he was content. Content. What a funny feeling. He hadn't been content, truly content, in a long while. Or happy. Or satisfied. Really, he hadn't felt this whole since before his mom died.

Never mind that the feeling was caused by a male-but-still-somehow-not-male who had threatened to throw Dean into Hell. Never mind that Cas was in Dean's personal space. Never mind that, good God, this was _Cas_. Dean didn't care. Dean could not bring himself to care, because for the first time in a long time, Dean felt as if he wasn't ruined. And that was _amazing._


End file.
